Blindsided
by jasperose
Summary: can one class change everything?  Brachel, two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_maybe I should be posting a new chapter to 'So Here We Are.' maybe I should be getting ready for work. maybe I should be taking my friend's little brosef to the park (yes). but instead, I'm posting a Brachel story, because Rachel doesn't get enough credit on the show, and Brooke is too boss to pass up._

_so here is my first attempt at a Brachel. two-shot, first part._

_also, I seem to be on a second-person narrative kick. sorry if that cheeses you._

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><p><strong>Blindsided, Part 1.<strong>

She was different. Infuriating, actually. Her ever-present smirk paired with her devious brown eyes, her cocked hip and raised brow, her constant stream of retorts; you couldn't stand her. She antagonized you like no one you've ever met. On more than one occasion the unbearable urge to strike her had caused you to clench your fists tightly at your sides, and her knowing smirk made your blood boil. She got under your skin. And you kind of liked it.

"She's such an insufferable bitch," you ranted, throwing your hands in the air. Your best friend lay on her bed and watched you pace, an amused look on her face. "Did you hear what she said to me today? Did you?"

Peyton nodded her head and rolled over onto her stomach. "Yes, Brooke, I heard. The whole gym heard. You were yelling, you know."

You fixed her with a look that clearly said "don't fuck with me now, P. Sawyer," and she shrugged, going back to her drawing. "I hate her," you revealed, your dark eyes bright. Peyton shook her head and stayed silent. You marveled at the newly defined feeling fluttering in your heart. As you thought about it and her, the feeling spread its wings and filled your chest, sneaking in behind your lungs and embracing your thumping heart.

A scowl instantly made its way onto your face once you spotted her sauntering down the hall at school the next day. Haley gave you a weird look, but then her eyes saw what yours did and she shook her head.

"Brooke, just ignore her," she urged, and you struggled to tear your eyes from her confident shoulders.

"Ignore who, Tutor Girl?" you asked with a charming smile. When she rolled her eyes and continued with your conversation, your eyes strayed back to her. And that newly identified feeling in your chest roared. You couldn't help the twisting flips your stomach clenched into at the sight of her.

She felt your eyes on her and looked over her shoulder. Her impish eyes sparkled at you and she flashed you a smirk. You narrowed your eyes and refused to back down until she turned back around. Then you lingered on her neck until Haley nudged your arm.

"Are you even listening, Brooke?" she asked, looking slightly peeved.

You rearranged your features and responded, "Sorry, Tutor Girl, I got distracted. You were saying?"

Giving you a searching look, Haley glanced quickly over her shoulder before back at you, a small smile spreading across her face as she answered you. "Nevermind, Brooke, it's not important."

You ignored the little grin and the intense flapping in your chest.

"So, cheer nazi, how _did _you get the title of '_head_ cheerleader,' anyway? 'Cause from what I hear, it was a lengthy campaign." Her taunting voice filled your ears as her cocky smirk grew. You glared at her, at her shining red hair and the slope of her neck and the way her hand rested defiantly on her hip, and you felt the new feeling of hate flutter in your chest, burn up your throat, spill onto your lips.

"I can assure you, Gattina, it's got nothing on yours," you replied evenly, even though your eyes were on fire and your tongue was spitting. She shrugged at your words and another devilish smirk twisted her lips.

"Of course not, Davis. Like you could compete with me," she turned on her heel but looked back and added, "Though it's cute for you to try so hard," and sauntered away to talk to the other cheerleaders, shooting you a wink. That fucking wink.

"I hate her, P. Sawyer. I hate her. She goes out of her way to provoke me, and I think she gets some sort of sick satisfaction from it or something, 'cause the way she looks at me when she's doing it is way too happy." You were ranting about her again, and Peyton was lying on her bed again, this time with music playing. "She's a…what do you call them, Peyton? A sad…something about sad…?"

"Sadist," she supplied dully, going back to her album cover.

"Yes! She's a sadist and a bitch and I hate her." You turned triumphantly to Peyton and she was looking at you with raised eyebrows. "What?" you asked, your thunder dissipating slightly at the look on her face.

Peyton leaned back on her elbows and fixed you with a P. Sawyer stare. "You certainly spend a lot of time thinking about her, don't you?"

Your eyes narrowed at her tone and you flicked your hair back. "She spends an awful lot of time making my life miserable, so yeah. I think about her a lot, but only in the 'how can I kill her the fastest' kind of way." Poking her knee none-too-gently, you looked at her and asked, "What are you getting at, Peyton?"

Peyton didn't say anything right away, instead studied your face. Then she let out a heavy sigh and looked away, shaking her head. "Nevermind, Brooke."

The Ravens had won another game, and everyone was ecstatic. Slipping away from Lucas, you skipped gleefully into the locker room after the game, clapping your hands together and smiling hugely. Throwing your pom poms into your bag, you went to the mirror to fix your hair that got mussed up in the celebrations. While brushing the long dark strands back from your face, your eyes caught the sparkling mischievous brown eyes of Rachel Gattina. She was smirking at your reflection.

"Take a picture, slut," you shot at her, huffing and turning back to your reflection. Trying to ignore the flush her gaze was inducing, you saw her smirk turn to a smile and she shook her head softly.

"Like I'd waste my film on you, ho," she retorted. Before you could say anything back, she threw her bag over her shoulder and sauntered out of the locker room. She paused at the door and you felt her eyes on you for a minute longer before she was gone.

"So, what's going on with you and Lucas?" Peyton asked as you once again lounged in her room after school. "Are you still doing that stupid non-exclusive thing?"

You lolled your head over the back of her desk chair and rolled your eyes. "I don't think so. Lucas got all upset and broody about it, he said something about 'being the guy for you, Brooke Davis.'" You shook your head in wonder and shrugged. "So the non-exclusive is painfully one-sided, I'm afraid."

Peyton snorted, pushing her curls from her eyes. "You guys are so complicated, Brooke. Just tell the poor guy you don't want to be with him so he can be put out of his misery."

Sitting up properly, you wheeled the chair back until it hit her bed. "What do you mean, P. Sawyer? I _do _want to be with him."

Peyton looked up at you with her big hazel eyes. "Really?" she asked dubiously. "You have a charming way of showing it."

You frowned and she reached up to smooth the wrinkle out between your eyes. "I _do_ want to be with him," you repeated, quieter this time.

English class had always been a secret favourite of yours. Not many (Peyton) knew it, but you were smart. And not just 'Brooke Smart,' actual smart. And English was one of your preferred classes, because you could be smart and get good grades and participate without actually having to participate. All the essays you had to write, all the book reports and grammar quizzes, they were all individual and they were all done without the annoying obligation of class participation.

So when Mr. Miller paired you all up and told you to 'get to know your partner' for the remainder of the period, you were understandably upset. Especially when you drew _her _name from Nathan's hat. You read her name out and groaned, your stomach clenching when she turned around and smirked, patting your cheek.

"Let's get one thing straight, bitch," you started, stalking out of the classroom and whirling to face her. "We are _not _spending the full hour together, because I can't stand you. So how about I go this way and you go that way, and we just…pretend. Deal?"

Giving you a look you would almost describe as 'searching,' Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her hair back. "I, unlike you, actually have a decent chance of graduating high school, Davis. I don't want to blow it by fucking up a simple English project." Placing a hand on her hip, she continued, "So get your slutty panties out of a bunch and do the damn assignment."

You flushed at the thought of Rachel thinking about your knickers. You opened your mouth to angrily reply, but all you could think of was, "My panties are _not _slutty." Her lips twisted into that damned smirk and you closed your eyes briefly. "Fine," you conceded. "But keep your stupid sarcastic comments to yourself, skank."

Rachel shrugged and turned, leading the way down the empty corridor to the doors leading outside. "Get that fat ass in gear, Davis," she called over her shoulder. You gritted your teeth in an effort to regain control before following after her.

"So, you want to go first?" Rachel cracked an eye open to look at you. The sun was bathing her, making her red hair glisten enchantingly. You tore your eyes from her magic hair to answer.

"Nope. This is all you, Gattina." You leaned back against the tree and waited.

With a pensive look on her face, Rachel considered the assignment. You noticed the way her brow furrowed gently. "Share something personal with your partner…" she trailed off and pursed her lips. "This could get ugly."

You scoffed and shielded your eyes. "You're only just realising that?"

"I had naïve hopes," she shrugged, sitting up and leaning on her forearms. Her long legs spread out across the grass and you couldn't keep your eyes from traveling from her ankle to her hip. She had nice jeans on. "But now that I know those hopes will be dashed, I'll just suck it up."

"You've had enough practice," you muttered, squinting against the sun. Rachel snorted, surprising you.

"Whatever," she smirked, copying your position and shading her eyes with her hand. She had a peculiar look on her face.

"So let's get to it, you vapid whore. Tell me something personal." You wished this assignment would just end. The fluttering in your chest and the knots in your stomach were getting unbearable.

Rolling her eyes, Rachel sighed before flopping back onto the grass. She managed to make it look graceful. "I've never felt anything with any of the guys I've slept with," she told you softly. You were surprised she said anything at all, let alone something so personal. Studying her form on the grass, you couldn't find it in you to make a remark. She looked so vulnerable, but in typical Rachel fashion she managed to maintain her arrogant air. She exhaled heavily and rolled her head on the grass, peering at you. Her hair looked beautiful against the green. "Your turn."

You frowned, because now you had to say something meaningful and serious. It wouldn't be fair for you to back out. If she went so personal, you had to return the favour. But you weren't sure how. Feeling her eyes on your face, you bit your lip and took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Me, neither," you told her in a whisper, half-hoping she didn't hear you.

Rachel's eyebrows rose slowly and she pushed herself into a sitting position. She heard you. Leaning her elbows on her knees, she met your apprehensive gaze. Her eyes were warm and remarkable. "No shit," she breathed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. You shrugged and looked down at your lap, twisting your fingers around.

"Yeah," you replied, avoiding her penetrating brown stare. "So, what's the next question?"

Rachel stayed quiet for a little bit longer, and you thought she was going to get into the fucked-up psychological reasoning behind your promiscuity. But instead she said, quite abruptly, "What is this?" You looked up quickly at the barely restrained anger in her tone. Her eyes were narrowed and her nostrils flared as she continued, "A centre for ants? How are we meant to teach the little children to learn how to read if they can't even _fit inside the building?_"

You couldn't help it; you burst out laughing, and Rachel's typical smirk spread into a smile at your raspy giggle. She had a nice smile. "What was _that?" _you wheezed out, wiping at your eyes.

"Duh, _Zoolander._ Idiot." She rolled her eyes at you.

Giving her a look, you replied, "I know _that. _I meant, why?"

"Oh." She reached for the paper next to her and handed it to you. "It was the next part of the assignment."

You pursed your lips in thought, trying to think of a good impression to do. You felt Rachel's eyes on you, and it made you a little nervous, but you pushed that feeling aside as you found a suitable celebrity. Clearing your throat, you fixed Rachel with a sultry look and drawled, "Happy birthday, Mr. President."

She raised her eyebrows and let out an appreciative laugh. "Pretty good, Davis," she allowed, tucking her long red hair behind her ear. "Not as good as mine, obviously, but good enough."

You let out an outraged gasp and smacked her knee, but she just smirked and read the next assignment. You ignored the fact that it felt, just moments before, like she was flirting with you. "Oh, we're gonna get heavy again, Davis. Brace yourself." She sighed and read out the next part dramatically, "'Admit something that worries you, or something you are afraid of.'"

You sighed, too, and leaned your head against the tree trunk. Where to start? You heard Rachel shift and when you peeked at her from under your lashes she was leaning back on her hands with her face turned to the sun. Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows were crinkled; she looked kind of nervous, but that wasn't something Rachel Gattina ever was, so you brushed it off and cleared your throat.

"I guess it's my turn, huh?" you asked, breaking the silence. Rachel opened her eyes, the sun making them amber. Her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks and your eyes followed the lines.

"I guess so," she answered simply.

Taking another deep breath, you looked away from her amber gaze and stared back at the school, full of kids just like you. You didn't know what to say; or more, you didn't know how to say it. But you thought you'd try anyway. "I'm worried I won't be remembered, once I'm gone."

Rachel's amber eyes were still on your face, but you didn't look at her. Not yet. "What do you mean?" she asked, sounding genuine.

"I mean…what if no one remembers me?" You ran a hand through your hair and bit your lip. "Who _would_ remember me?" Looking down at your hands and your twisting fingers, you whisper, "and I mean as more than that skanky girl they used to know, or that girl they fucked at a party one time."

You had been worrying about that for a long time, but you didn't have anyone to voice your concerns to. And that was almost just as sad, you thought, because you weren't sure if you could trust even your closest friends to give you a legitimately honest answer. You weren't sure you wanted it, actually, but since when did Rachel Gattina give a fuck?

Rachel was quiet and you were nervous and vulnerable. You picked at the grass, keeping your eyes from looking anywhere but at her. It gave easily under your fretful fingers. "You're Brooke Davis," she said matter-of-factly. Startled and confused, you looked up at her. She gave you a 'duh' look. "How could people _not _remember you?"

You shook your head and tugged at the grass, harder and harder. "I'm not saying I'm forgettable," you smirked, trying to regain that cocky head cheerleader persona you'd perfected. It had been so long, it was more your _first _nature rather than your _second_. Rachel's face turned down at this change in you. "I'm saying, what if they remember me for the wrong reasons?"

Rachel considered that, her amber eyes studying you as she thought. Her intense gaze gave you goosebumps. "Then they didn't really know you," she decided, nodding her head in a definitive sort of way. You felt your stomach flutter at her words and the confident manner in which she said it, the confident manner in which she did or said everything. And you realised there was a whole lot more to Rachel Gattina than you gave her credit for. Horrifyingly, you two were a lot a like.

And this stupid assignment was only half done.

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><p><em>as is this story.<br>the title is a song by Bon Iver, off his first album, For Emma, Forever Ago. soooo bloody brilliant._

_let me know what you think, please :D_

_- Japes. _


	2. Chapter 2

_here we go, Brachel two-shot, part two._

_enjoy! (?)_

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><p><strong>Blindsided, Part 2.<strong>

You weren't sure how to respond to her confident declaration, so you picked at your thumbnail and looked everywhere but at her. She watched you, you could feel her amber eyes on your face, but you didn't look at her. You didn't want to, not yet.

Your mind was swirling. Rachel Gattina was an enigma, one you couldn't get a grip on. On one hand, you hated her. You flat out, straight up despised everything about her. That goddamned cocky smirk and those stupid sparkling eyes and that sarcastic voice; you hated it all. You hated her and the way she made you feel, inadequate and nervous and tense. But on the other hand, as this stupid assignment had revealed, she was a lot like you. She was putting on an act of bravado and nonchalance when in actuality she was just a kid. She wasn't this superhuman immune to the pressures of high school and parents and boys; she, like you, was just really good at hiding the fact that she wasn't. It made your eyes prick. And that clenching feeling in your chest expanded.

"I guess not," you whispered back, glancing up nervously to meet her gaze. There was a look in her eyes, one that made you want to dig deep and figure her out. But before you could, she had nodded and smirked and the look was buried beneath the façade you and her had both perfected.

"Right. So it's my turn now, Davis. Get ready," she winked, a joking flirty wink, and you furrowed your brow at the action. God knows you'd pulled that one a million times before. And god knew you weren't anywhere near as confident as that wink implied. Your brow remained crinkled and Rachel pretended she didn't notice. "I'm afraid…" she trailed off and leaned back onto her forearms. Pursing her lips, she appeared to be thinking long and hard—a strange sight to see, you thought. After a while, she pushed herself back up and continued, "I'm afraid that, once people figure out who I am, they won't stick around." Her usually self-assured tone was absent, as it had been during her first confession.

"What do you mean?" you asked, tilting your head. Rachel sighed and picked at a loose thread on her trousers. "Rachel, what do you mean?"

She looked up at you and her eyes were heavy. "You know what I mean," she whispered, and once again you felt your heart clench as her eyes met yours. Of course you knew what she meant.

Shaking your head, you ran a hand through your hair and tried to regain some composure. This ridiculous assignment was getting way too heavy. "Why wouldn't people stick around? Assuming this huge bitch thing you've got going _isn't _the real you, I mean."

Rachel laughed, short and forced. You felt a bit bad for your comment after that. "Don't be an idiot, Brooke." She used your name. You felt the flutter of the wings behind your lungs. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

You did. You knew you did, and she did, too. But you didn't want to admit anything more to this girl you loathed. She already knew way more of you than you ever wanted her to. So you shook your head and rubbed your nose and avoided her eyes.

"Or is this image of the whore head cheerleader _exactly _who you are?"

You couldn't help it; your eyes met hers in an angry glare. Hers were sparkling, but not in the normal way you were accustomed to. They were heated and sad and challenging and hopeful, and that made you nervous and angry and defensive. But you were tired.

"Maybe it is," you told her, shrugging. The fire burned out in your eyes and Rachel noticed. Her own flooded with sadness and you looked away. You didn't want to see it. "That's exactly who I am. At least," you continued, "that's how everyone sees it. Why bother to correct them?"

Rachel shook her head slowly, resting her temple on her fist. "You're so difficult," she told you as a small smile curved her lips. "You _do _know _exactly _what I'm talking about, and you still refuse to admit anything." A humourless laugh fell past her lips and she looked up to the sky, the sun catching the light in her hair, "You're a piece of work, you know that, Davis?"

You felt the flames lick back up your throat. "You're one to talk, Gattina," you informed her. "You're just as bad."

She considered this, pursing her lips before nodding. "Yeah," she agreed, "I'm just as bad."

A silence fell over you as you both thought about what had just happened. You both knew each other far more than you had ever expected to, and the notion that you two were actually two of a kind was startling and fresh and strangely comforting.

Peyton was there for you, you knew that. But she could never fully understand your insecurities and worries and fears, because she didn't know. But sitting not three feet from you was someone who _knew_. And it was scary, you thought, but it was also an unbelievable relief. A scary relief.

You decided to break the silence this time. Taking a breath, you picked at the grass as you said, "I don't think they'd leave you behind."

A wrinkle formed between her eyebrows and you desperately wanted to smooth it out. "What?"

You felt your lips tug at the expression on her face. "If people found out you weren't this colossal bitch, I don't think they'd leave." You shrugged and continued, "I actually think they'd like you better."

Rachel mulled that over, her nose crinkling as she thought. You couldn't help but think it was cute. Then you couldn't help but think it was weird that you thought anything she did was cute. "Do you?" she asked, cocking a brow.

"Do I what?"

"Do you like me better? I mean, now that you know I'm not this colossal bitch and all." She was smiling. You felt your cheeks heat up, but you didn't look away.

"Maybe I do."

Accepting your answer, her smile grew and she held your gaze. The wings fluttered harder and you didn't know why; you felt no overwhelming feelings of hate, and she hadn't insulted you. But the longer you stared, the harder they flapped, and you felt your mouth go dry and your heart beat pick up and you didn't know why. Her eyes looked like spun gold in the sunlight.

"Alright, next question," announced Rachel, breaking the contact and reaching for the paper. "Oh, this one isn't so thought-provoking. 'What do you want to be in ten years?'"

You blinked hard, trying to shake the feeling you had, and frowned. "Ten years is a long time," you wondered.

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "Astute observation, detective."

"Shut up."

"Maybe that should be your 'ten years,' you'd make a fantastic sleuth."

"And you'd make a fantastic pole dancer. There's your 'ten years,' what a surprise."

"Please, I'm way too hot to dance for dollar bills. Have you seen this ass?"

You rolled your eyes and pretended like you hadn't noticed that Rachel had an amazing body. "How could I miss it?"

She smirked, but it didn't make your blood boil like it used to. Instead, you found it made your own lips tug into a smile. And you thought this incredibly strange, because you were supposed to hate that goddamned cocky smirk.

"I wanna be a model, I think," Rachel told you. She had her chin resting in her palm and her eyes were on you.

You could see that. She'd make a great model, plastered all over billboards and magazines. That smirk and those eyes would get her places, you thought. "I want to be a designer."

Her eyebrows shot up and she had an impressed smile curving her lips. "You design? Like, clothes?"

You smiled at her words and nodded. "I designed this jacket, actually."

Her eyes traced the lines of your torso and you felt your skin get prickly. "You _made _that? Damn, Davis. Who knew?"

"Peyton," you told her, self-consciously tucking your fingers into the sleeve of your coat. A strange look washed over her face, but before you could over-think it, it was gone.

"Of course, your girlfriend," she teased. Her eyes met yours and you could've sworn you saw jealousy there. You could understand that; not many people had a friendship as close as yours.

"How many times, Gattina. She's not my girlfriend," you intoned, rolling your eyes. Rachel shook her head.

"You two have way too much weird lesbian energy going on there for it to be purely platonic," she insisted. Her eyes were bright.

"Bullshit."

"Whatever you say, Brooke," she said it again, your name. "But I know it when I see it. You two are way into each other."

You made a face. "Fuck off, Gattina. I'm not into Peyton."

"My, my, aren't we defensive?" she taunted, a mischievous grin twisting her lips.

You groaned and flopped back against the tree. The hard bark scratched your neck. "You're impossible," you moaned, shielding your eyes. "Why would you care, anyway?"

Rachel snorted and flicked her hair back. The sun made her a silhouette. "I don't," she argued.

"Then why are you so insistent, huh?" You still couldn't make out her features, just her outline. It bothered you.

She didn't answer right away, and you stared at her figure until you could make out her face. Her brow was furrowed and she was biting her lip. She felt you watching her and she straightened up. "I just hate to see a love go unrecognized."

You shook your head, "Whatever, ho."

"Slut."

"Bitch."

"Whore."

You smiled at the banter, and then started at the realization that you were bantering with Rachel Gattina. It felt so natural, this repertoire you two had, and it made your chest flutter again. You were confused.

Deciding it was a mystery to solve later, you grabbed the paper and read out the final part of the assignment. "'Tell your partner a secret.'" You frowned and looked up at Rachel. "Isn't that what we've been doing this whole time?"

Rachel shrugged. "Maybe we did it wrong."

You shrugged, too, and tossed the paper down. "You go."

Staring at you for an impossible moment, Rachel's smirk slowly dropped. Her eyes didn't leave yours, but you noticed they lost the spark they had earlier, when you two were teasing. She looked sad, almost, like every line in her face turned down, drooped, until she looked like a falling raindrop. You opened your mouth to ask what was wrong, but before you could, Rachel looked away and stood up.

"The hour's almost up, bitch," she said. You could hear the fakeness in her voice and see the stiffness in her posture. Something was wrong and you wanted to know what it was.

"We've got time," you told her, pushing yourself onto your knees. She looked back at you and you marveled at the anxiety in her eyes. Her walls were falling down and you weren't sure what would come of it. The look on her face made the wings in your chest flap frantically.

She sighed and looked toward the school. After forever, she glanced back at you and her amber eyes shone. "I guess we do," she conceded, though she didn't sit back down. She remained standing, her arms crossed over her torso.

You sank back into the grass and crossed your legs. "Come on, Gattina," you said, patting the grass beside you, "Tell me yours I'll tell you mine."

She raised her eyebrows and a ghost of a smirk crossed her face. "You sure know how to woo a girl," she remarked, and you found you weren't incensed by the sarcastic tone. In fact, you found it endearing. And then you thought you were loosing your mind.

"There's not much I can't do," you replied, giving her a dimpled grin. "Now get your ass down here, we're almost done."

She sighed again and slowly lowered herself onto the grass. She leaned her back against the tree and you felt her shoulder press against yours. If you turned your head just slightly, you'd be face to face. Strangely, the thought made you nervous.

"This assignment is whack," she muttered. Tucking her hair behind her ear, you felt her turn her head slightly and then you felt her breath on your ear as she spoke, "I don't know what to say."

Shrugging, you answered, "Me, neither. I kind of accidentally told you everything already."

Her soft chuckle brushed against your cheek. "Yeah…no idea how that happened."

You laughed too, softly, and marveled at the feeling stirring in your chest as her breathy chuckle flooded your head. You could still feel it against your cheek. The wings spread until your chest was filled, hugging your heart and squeezing your lungs until you were breathless and your heart was pounding.

"I have a secret," you said, your voice embarrassingly shaky. Rachel turned her head more, until her nose brushed your hair, and you felt your breath catch in your throat.

"What is it?" she whispered, her breath causing your hair to tickle your cheek. You turned your head, too, and suddenly found yourself looking into the amber eyes of Rachel Gattina. They were warm and curious.

"I…" you started, blinking and trying to count the colours. "I hated you, I think." She looked kind of puzzled and hurt. You started again. "Before, I hated you."

She nodded. "I figured as much," she admitted, looking down. "You were always glaring. I'm not sure why."

You shrugged and twisted your fingers. "I'm not, either, actually. You just…everything you did, it made something inside me clench and twist and flutter and I just got so angry. I didn't know what it meant."

Rachel didn't say anything. You felt her eyes on your face and you looked up from your fingers to meet her swirling eyes. There was a peculiar speck of green, right next to her pupil. She was fascinating.

"Sorry," you added softly. She shrugged and smirked and slapped your knee gently.

"It's okay. I always knew you were slow."

You opened your mouth in outrage, ready to argue vehemently, but before you could she placed a finger over your lips. "My turn," she sang.

Your lips were tingling from where her finger touched. Furrowing your brows and reaching a hand up to touch your lips, you waited for Rachel's secret. It seemed to take forever. She sat still beside you, and her eyes were no longer inches from yours. Instead, they seemed miles away.

Right when you were about to prod and poke, she turned back to you and a peculiar look shone in her eyes. It made you nervous and you felt your stomach flip. "Rachel, what—" you began, but her lips against yours silenced you.

It felt…you weren't sure how it felt. It was urgent and slow, passionate and gentle, and you felt your head swimming in the contradictions. Your stomach flipped and flopped and the wings flapped frantically, making you dizzy. She bit your bottom lip as she pulled away and you kept your eyes closed for a moment longer.

"I wasn't sure how to say it without sounding like a weenie," she said softly. You opened your eyes and she met your gaze, anxious and vulnerable.

"That works," you replied. Your lips were on fire and your heart thudded heavily against your chest.

She laughed softly, nervously, and picked at her thumbnail. You watched her, not used to seeing her so exposed and self-conscious. She was Rachel Gattina. She was the enigma you couldn't figure out. She was cool and collected and confident and hot. She made your blood boil and your stomach flip. She wasn't supposed to look so scared.

You lifted your hand and tucked it gently under her chin. She looked at you, startled, and you pushed your insecurities aside as you pressed your lips to hers again. She kissed back.

The bell rang, signaling the end of English class. Pulling away slowly, she rested her forehead against yours and tried to catch her breath. "Some assignment, huh?"

You chuckled and she kissed you again, your laugh swallowed by her lips. "What does this mean?" you asked as she pulled away again.

She bit her lip and looked away for a moment. "I guess it means…" she turned back to face you and smiled softly. Reaching for your hand, she held it flat against her chest and waited for you to feel.

Your eyes widened and you looked from your hand to her eyes before grabbing her hand and pressing it to your chest in the same manner. Her smile grew and she let out a breathy laugh. "Wow. I guess this explains the matter of the nothing with boys, hey?"

You laugh too, pulling your hand from her racing heart and tucking her hair behind her ear. "Looks like it," you reply.

"Come on, we've got Calculus," she stood, pulling you up with her. You didn't pull your hand away, instead tangling your fingers with hers. She smiled at you and you decided you liked her smile almost as much as that goddamned cocky smirk.

"I hate Calculus," you told her, groaning. Her smile grew and she wrapped her arm around your shoulders. Your fingers missed the warmth.

"I know, little dumb, but I can pass you dirty notes all class."

Your cheeks heated and you smacked her stomach, but you were smiling. "You're a mess," you told her. She rolled her eyes and ruffled your hair. It all felt so natural.

"A hot mess," she corrected. Pressing her lips against your ear, she whispered, "your hot mess, actually."

Your stomach flipped and flopped and your pulse fluttered. "Yeah," you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips. The wings in your chest flapped harder and harder, swirling the air in your lungs and clenching your heart. "Who knew?"

Rachel smirked and hugged you closer for a moment, her fingers brushing the hair from your neck. "Oh, I had an inkling," she told you. "I mean, did you really think I missed all those lustful looks at cheer practice? You're not very subtle, Davis."

You sighed and buried your face in her shoulder. "Whatever, slut."

"Oh, that's nice, isn't it? I tell you I'm yours and you call me a slut."

"I meant it as a term of endearment, like babycakes or honeybunch."

"If you ever, _ever _call me babycakes I'm going to slap your face."

"Okay, babycakes."

"Bitch."

"Honeybunch."

Rachel laughed and dropped her arm from your shoulders. The school was getting closer. You weren't sure if you were ready for the weight. "I guess resistance is futile."

"Sure is, sweetie pie."

"I love pie."

"Me, too!"

"You know, when do we ever really _need _calculus in every day life?"

You shrugged. "Never, that's when."

"Exactly! Now, when do we ever really need _pie?_"

"All the fucking time," you told her, your face serious and wanting. She nodded determinedly and grabbed your hand, leading you to the parking lot.

"Pie it is, Davis."

You tangled your fingers and swung your hands like a child. Rachel smiled at your expression and let you. "Thanks, pastry."

"Pastry?" she repeated, her eyebrows raised.

You shrugged and continued swinging your linked hands. "I ran out of baked goods. Give me a break, I'm hungry."

She sighed and opened the passenger door for you. You climbed in and buckled your seatbelt, your head still swimming from the kiss and the words and the actions. Rachel climbed in behind the wheel and turned the key, glancing at you with a smile on her face. You smiled back, and the feeling in your chest expanded and flooded your heart and stomach.

You knew now it was never about hate. It was about wonder and confusion and unknown quantities. It was about admiration and misplaced blame and scared little girls from small towns. It was about contradictions and secrets and masks. It was about you and it was about her and it was about time, you thought.

* * *

><p><em>i didn't really know how to end that...lalala.<em>

_i hope you enjoyed diving into the minds of Brooke and Rachel and pretending there was more to their initial animosity than just jealousy on Brooke's part. i know i did. these two are a blast, hey?_

_review, friends!_

_-Jasper_


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